


I know that we were made to break (I don't mind)

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Clint Has Issues, Dual POV, Happy Ending, M/M, Oh Woobie, Phil Needs a Hug, so much angst oh my god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 12:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1744937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint can't breathe.</p><p>"What do you mean, short term thing?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	I know that we were made to break (I don't mind)

**Author's Note:**

> I nearly burst into tears when I thought of this.

It takes a moment for Clint to fully comprehend what's happening.

"Phil-" he starts, desperate, pleading, "Phil, please, no-"

 

 

"What do you mean, no?" Phil asks, heart stuttering in his chest, as the tiny voice in his head screams, _I told you so_ , _I knew it_ , _I told you so_.

 

 

"I mean, I can't-" Clint cuts himself off, his hand flying to his mouth, "With you, I can't-" _burden you_ , "I can't-"  _drag you down_ , "I can't-" _treat you the way you deserve to be treated_.

"I just... can't." he finally states, guilty and soft, and Phil's entire face  _crumples_. 

 

 

"Okay," Phil says, and he gets up, brushes himself off, and resolutely schools his expression into absolute blankness, because his eyes are burning for the first time in over a decade and he doesn't want Clint to see, doesn't want Clint to know how much his rejection _hurts_. They started off as friends, after all, even though it seems so long ago, like a half-remembered dream, and Phil is determined to at least retain that, if not everything else.

 

 

Clint takes slow, deep breaths, trying to slow down the frantic beating of his heart, and he turns to Phil, to explain, only to find him halfway to the door.

"You're leaving." he says, but it comes out more like a question, his voice cracking at the end, because it's _Phil_. Phil _never_ leaves, is the only one who never leaves, and the thought of _Phil leaving_ is enough to make him feel physically ill, bile burning at the back of his throat. "Why are you leaving?" he finally manages to choke out, his voice as cracked and raw and vulnerable as he feels.

 

 

Phil's legs feel leaden, unyielding, two stumps of concrete anchoring him to the ground. "I thought it would be best to... maintain some distance for now," he manages, his voice as soft as a whisper, carefully keeping any sort of emotion out of his tone. "I'm not going to be capable of retaining professionalism about this. Not now."

 

 

Clint's chest hurts, a deep seated, searing ache that spreads out to fill the void where his heart should be, and he struggles with the words, tries to make them come, but they're lodged in his lungs, clogging up his throat, razor-sharp, scratching and cutting and lacerating, and he tries to speak but _can't_ , staring mutely and screaming inside as Phil slowly, so _excruciatingly_ slowly, takes one step, and another, out towards the door, out of Clint's life.

 

 

Phil's hand reaches the door handle, but he doesn't turn it, indecisive, still waiting for the final moment, _that moment_ at the end of each op, whether it be successful or a complete and utter failure like this night has turned out to be, the moment where he breathes out and he knows that it's done, everything's done, for better and for worse (and _doesn't that sting?_ ). "I wanted this to work _so hard_ , Clint," he finally admits, because he figures he's laid himself so bare that a little bit more wouldn't hurt, and right now, he's so numb inside that he can't bring himself to care. "I wanted this to work for so long... ever since that mission in Budapest, I've wanted this, _needed_ this between us."

 

 

Clint's eyes are burning, a burning to match the fire lacing through his veins, a blistering heat that ebbs and flows with the tide of his heartbeat, the withering ache eating through his very soul, because he's wanted this to work too, but it's inevitable, he _knew_ it was inevitable. Knew that one day, Phil would see him for what he is, what he always has been and what he _always_ will be, miserable and wretched and broken beyond repair, undeserving of kindness or of love or of even _recognition_ , an empty shell that can only destroy and never rebuild, and he welcomes the pain, because this he knows, this he can deal with. This, he deserves.

 

 

Phil closes his eyes ineffectually, trying to stave it off, but it's no use. The tears are streaking down his face, down his nose, and he exhales shakily, resting his head against the cold, wooden door. "I let myself hope," he continues, his voice wobbly and weak, husky with emotion and misery. "I let myself hope, and it wasn't fair, because I always knew that this was just a short term thing for you, but I _hoped_. _God_ , Clint, I hoped."

 

 

Clint can't breathe.

"What short term thing?"

 

 

Phil freezes, goes rigid, because that's not what he expected to hear. He expected to hear sadness, regret, maybe even pain, or anger, but he never even dared contemplate the _disbelief_ in Clint's voice, and he turns to find Clint pale, usually-steady hands trembling, clenched so tightly into fists the knuckles are outlined in a livid, violent white against the gold of his skin, his face pale and tear streaked, eyes red rimmed, looking as stricken as Phil himself feels, and before he even makes a conscious decision, he's moving.

 

 

As Phil takes a step closer, and another, Clint is paralyzed, locked, trapped in Phil's gaze, a deer in the headlights, and he feels cold, so very cold, and tired, shivering where he stands, but he can't move to make himself warm because Phil is across from him, Phil is standing less than a step away, and everything inside of Clint _aches_ to bridge the gap, pull Phil close, and he makes an abortive gesture but stops, because this is his fault, _everything_ is his fault, he made Phil _cry_ , he needs to be punished, but before he can step back and turn away and lose himself in the pain, Phil is the one reaching across the chasm, Phil is the one pulling him into his arms, Phil is the one stroking his back as the tears he's been fighting so hard to hold back well and run and he sobs, dry, brittle, hacking coughs, gasping for air and trembling because he's so cold, so fucking _cold_ , and, as if reading Clint's mind, Phil pulls him even tighter.

 

 

" _Clint_ ," Phil breathes, in shock, in wonder, because Clint is in his arms and he's holding Phil like Phil is everything he has left in the world, everything he's ever wanted, and Clint wipes his eyes with the back of one hand, shed tears fading in the dark material of Phil's jacket. "Was this ever a short term thing for you?" he asks, because he needs to hear it, needs to hear Clint say it, because he's still unsure, still wavering, still so achingly _blind_.

 

 

"Never," Clint rasps, his voice gravelly, creaking. " _Never_. But..." he forces it out, "Even if you go, I'll understand. I-, I know it's not easy, to... burden yourself with me. I know I'll never be good enough for you, as well. But I just wanted, I just... let myself want, and I'm so fucking sorry, Phil, I'm so fucking sorry I hurt you."

 

 

Phil buries his head in Clint's shoulder, breathing in the smell he'd already resigned to have lost forever, the barest hint of citrus, a touch of rosin, laced with Clint, warm and musky and so comfortably familiar that he wants to break down all over again. " _You idiot_ ," he murmurs, and pulls Clint even closer.

 

 

Clint stiffens, going wooden, because he can't have heard warmth, affection, fondness, love in Phil's voice. He doesn't deserve love, doesn't deserve Phil- why isn't Phil leaving? Why is he still hugging Clint?

 

 

"I _know_ you know I love you," Phil whispers, and he knows Clint's heard by the way he suddenly relaxes into the embrace, arms arching up to cover Phil. "I know you love me too. And I know that no matter how many times I say it, you're not going to believe that you're worthy of this, Clint. Not now, at least." He draws back, searching Clint's eyes, gold and green and bright, sky blue, and in the pain and the heartache and the gut-wrenching misery, he finds what he's looking for, the barest, faintest glimmer of trust, of belief.

 

 

"But my offer still stands, Clint," Phil says, in the warm voice of him that Clint loves, the warm voice that slips straight inside his heart and mends something he hadn't realized he'd broken. "I'm yours, forever and more, no matter what comes our way, and I don't need anything to prove it. And if, one day, you finally realize that you do deserve this, that you're so beautiful and so kind and so, so incredible that I still can't believe that you want me-"

"Of course, I want you, Phil," Clint grits out, because Phil should never feel unwanted, _never_ feel unloved.

Phil smiles, and the corners of his eyes crinkle, and Clint hides his eyes in Phil's jacket again because he thought he'd never have that smile directed at him, and he feels the burning, the lump stuck in his throat, but this time it's from surprise, from joy, from love. "Missing the point," Phil says, tone deliberately light and teasing, before lowering into the low, affectionate cadence from earlier. "If, one day, you feel like saying yes... You already know my answer."

Clint wipes his eyes, and finally says what he's been so terrified to say, the tiny seed of doubt and fear and loathing that he'd hidden away and let bloom and _still_ can't fully uproot. "But what if it never happens, Phil?" he asks, desperate, seeking reassurance, "What if I can never accept it, what if it _doesn't_ happen?"

Phil just smiles, and this time it's wider, brighter, happier. "I said forever, didn't I?" he teases, and Clint suddenly realizes that by not saying " _No_ ," by thinking of the future, by imagining a future together - _with Phil_ \- he's already answered. 

Clint tugs him close again, marveling at the way they fit together, the heat of Phil's chest against his, the strength of the arms tucking him in, keeping him safe. "Always?" he manages, soft and broken, lost. 

 

"Always," Phil confirms.

 _Always_.


End file.
